by R. J. Blacks
Benson looks down, shakes his head side to side, doesn’t answer. Berkeley asks him again.
“Dr. Benson, we’re all waiting for you.”
Benson gazes at Berkeley, then announces: “I think I need a lawyer.”
A buzz envelops the room as everyone whispers to their neighbor.
“Order in the court,” the judge says, and the room quiets down.
Berkeley approaches Benson.
“Is your reluctance to testify based on the possibility of self-incrimination?”
“Objection,” Fullbright shouts. “There’s no evidence Dr. Benson broke any laws.”
“Sustained,” the judge says.
Berkeley faces the judge. “Your Honor, it is my intention to arrive at the truth, not to incriminate the witness. Therefore, to avoid the appearance I may be seeking self-incrimination, may I petition the court to grant him immunity from prosecution.”
“Let the record show immunity has been granted to the witness,” the judge says. “Please answer the question Dr. Benson.”
Berkeley approaches Benson. “I repeat: What were your concerns about the reports to the EPA?”
“He told me to make them look good.”
“In what way?”
“Leave out the bad stuff.”
“Falsify the reports?” Berkeley asks.
Benson stares at the back wall, but doesn’t say a word.
The judge interjects: “We’re all waiting, Dr. Benson.”
“I told him I didn’t want to go to jail.”
“And his response?” Berkeley asks.
“He told me not to worry. Said he would use the entire legal weight of GWI to fend off anyone that challenged us. So I asked him if the CEO agreed with this. He told me he would handle Broadhampton if I delivered the goods. He then added that he was up for the CEO position after Broadhampton retired and would remember what I did for the company. But if I didn’t meet the August first date, it was over for me.”
The bailiff approaches the bench cutting off Berkeley. He hands the judge a note. The judge opens the note, reads it silently, and then, looks up.
“Mr. Fullbright, please approach the bench.”
The judge hands him the note and he studies it for a few minutes. Fullbright looks up and addresses the judge.
“Your Honor, counsel for the defense requests a twenty minute recess.”
“State your reason for the record.”
“Eldridge Broadhampton has advised me he has critical information that would interest the court.”
“Twenty minute recess granted,” the judge says.
Everyone leaves the room and Berkeley and I have coffee in the break room.
“Something’s going on,” he says. “I think they’re rethinking their strategy.”
“Is that good?”
“We’ll soon see.”
Twenty minutes later, we file back into the courtroom and noticeably absent is Ellis Grimes. Sitting in his place at the defense table is Eldridge Broadhampton. Fullbright stands up and requests permission to approach the bench.
“You may,” the judge says, and then he and Fullbright chat in a low voice for a few minutes. Fullbright returns to his seat and the judge addresses the court.
“Let the record show that counsel for the defense has requested a private audience with me and the plaintiff’s attorney. Counselors, please follow me.”
Berkeley winks at me, and then he and Fullbright follow the judge out a door that leads to the judge’s chambers. The courtroom comes alive with background chatter.
Ten minutes later, the three of them return, and Berkeley takes his seat next to me.
“Grimes has been fired,” he says in a whisper.
“You’re kidding,” I say.
“Shhh. I’ll tell you about it later.”
The judge bangs his gavel on the bench repeatedly.
“Silence in the courtroom.”
The room quiets and the judge continues.
“In lieu of the previous testimony, and these new developments, the counsel for the defense has advised me it would be pointless to continue this session.”
The courtroom goes into a spasm as everyone turns to their neighbor and starts talking out loud. The judge again bangs his gavel on the bench with increased vigor.
“Order in the court. Order in the court.”
The courtroom quiets down.
“The plaintiffs had originally requested a settlement of eight million dollars, however, I find that inappropriate for this case. Let the record show I have proposed an alternative settlement and both parties have agreed to the amount. Compensatory damages are hereby set at sixteen million dollars and punitive damages at fifty million dollars, paid to George and Victoria Stewart for the death of their son Kevin.”
For a good ten seconds no one reacts, as the meaning of the judge’s words sink in. Then, everyone starts talking at once and a roar of voices envelops the room.
Once again the judge bangs his gavel on the bench repeatedly.
“Order in the court. Order in the court.”
A few minutes later, the courtroom quiets down.
“I would personally like to thank the jury for their patience and to compliment both attorneys for their professional demeanor. Court is now adjourned.”
The judge exits to his chambers and people begin filing out the room. Berkeley and I stay in our seats as the room empties.
“So what happened to Grimes?” I ask.
“Broadhampton demanded his resignation, and when he wouldn’t give it, was fired on the spot. Apparently, Benson told them everything, how Grimes had tampered with his data and filed false reports with the EPA. He’s got a nasty legal battle ahead and could be looking at significant jail time. The company has pledged to cooperate with the authorities so they don’t get dragged under with him. I can’t say I blame them.”
“And to think it all could have been avoided.”
Berkeley shrugs and then we exit the courtroom. We meet up with the Stewarts who are valiantly warding off the badgering of reporters and their camera crews. Berkeley steps into the fray, redirecting questions to himself, and using his well-polished tact of saying a lot of words, but telling them as little as possible. And amazingly, even though I’m standing right next to him, no one asks me a thing. They probably think I’m just his secretary or a no name technical advisor with no opinion worth writing down. How does a reporter capsulize ten years of education and six months of research in a thirty second news spot? Does anyone care? In today’s fast moving world, the fifteen minutes of fame goes to the money winners, the plaintiffs and their attorney.
One by one, the reporters drift away, and then, Berkeley invites us to a victory dinner. I don’t think reality has quite sunk in yet because the Stewarts seem to take their triumph rather casually. But in a few weeks, when the checks arrive, they will become patently aware of their newfound wealth and realize this was the real thing.
It’s a bittersweet moment for me. I never did this for money, so I didn’t expect to get any. The $30,000 I get for three days of involvement is well appreciated and will come in handy to pay some bills. But it’s not a life changing event. Berkeley and the Stewarts have achieved their goal so they can put this behind them and go on with their lives. But I’m still working on mine and who knows when that will come to fruition. If there’s a silver lining in all this, it’s that I’ve proven my point, and I suppose that will be my just reward for believing in myself and persevering to the end.
As we saunter towards the front door of the courthouse, I see Dean Haas lingering in the hallway, straight ahead. Even though I’m no longer under her supervision, whenever I’m around her, I still get butterflies in my stomach. I try to avoid walking past her, but there is nowhere else to go, so I just smile politely as I get close. She calls me aside with a wave of her hand, so I approach gingerly, expecting the worst.
“I’d like to have a word with you if you don’t mind,” she says.
“Sure, what’s it about,” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
Berkeley tells the Stewarts to wait in the lobby, and then, follows me as Dean Haas leads us to a conference room. Inside, Eldridge Broadhampton, Clarence Fullbright, and Dr. Benson are sitting at a table. Dean Haas takes a seat next to Broadhampton. Berkeley and I find two seats on the opposite side of the table. Fullbright speaks first, addresses Berkeley.
“You did quite well today,” he says.
“Thanks, you were pretty good yourself.”
Broadhampton stands up, walks to the head of the table, and directs his attention towards me.
“Indigo, before we get started, I would like to apologize for the harsh treatment you received from my special council Ellis Grimes. It was inexcusable and I was totally unaware of the situation. I realize now this was not a personal attack on the company, only honest research from someone who was interested in expanding the science.”
“Thank you Mr. Broadhampton,” I say.
“But the real reason we brought you here is to ask you if you would consider an offer. I am committed to fixing the problem GWI created and I want you to join us.”
“Join you?”
“I think you and Dr. Benson have more insight into the solution than anyone else on the planet and would make a great team. I want you to know I am one-hundred percent committed to supporting you.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” I respond.
Broadhampton hands me a folded piece of paper.
“If you decide to join us, this is what I’m prepared to offer.”
I open the paper and written inside is a six-figure salary. I stare at it not knowing how to respond.
“You don’t have to decide now. Take a couple of days to think it over. You’d be working out of our Philadelphia lab so you’d be back with your friends and colleagues.”
“Thank you Mr. Broadhampton. I’ll let you know.”
“One more thing. Dean Haas, did you want to tell her now?”
“I think now would be appropriate,” she says, and then stands up.
“Mr. Broadhampton, Dr. Benson, and I, were all impressed by the level of research you demonstrated during the trial. Therefore, I am granting you full rights back at the university and if you write up a paper on what you did, I will accept it as your official dissertation and grant you a PhD in Microbiology.”
I’m completely choked up but manage to pull myself together and eke out a lame response.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” she says brusquely. “Send me that paper as soon as possible so we can conclude this and move on.”
She gathers her things and then approaches the door along with Broadhampton and Benson. They exit, but she stops, turns, and looks at me.
“One more thing...”
“Yes.”
“I see you’ve taken my advice.”
I gaze at her with a blank look.
“The hair,” she says, and then abruptly leaves the room.
Berkeley and I are the only ones left and we stare at each other in surprise.
“Congratulations,” Berkeley says. “Come on, let’s go celebrate.”
We exit the room and meet up with the Stewarts in the lobby, and then, he takes us to a fine restaurant on the waterfront. We celebrate our victory with a relaxing dinner of lobster and Champagne finishing off with a Limoncello.
After a few more drinks, the Stewarts announce their desire to head to the airport. It’s been a tiring ordeal for them, and they just want to get home. They get up, wish us a goodbye, and exit the restaurant. I watch them through the window as they hail a cab from the many parked along the waterfront, and then, get in. As the taxi pulls out, and disappears into traffic, I am hit with the realization it’s over. I will probably never see them again.
Berkeley pays the bill and we exit the restaurant. We drift around the waterfront for a few hours enjoying the warm night air and taking in the exhibits. He tells me of his intention to hang around Baltimore for a few days to look up old friends and invites me to join him. But I’m too burned out so I politely decline and head back to the hotel alone.
My first order of business is to book a flight back home. I manage to get one for the following afternoon, at 1:30 PM, nonstop, to Daytona International. Next, I send a text message to Fargo, Will, Doug, and Brad, to bring them up to date on the outcome. They’re all surprised it ended so soon and congratulate me on my victory. Fargo suggests we throw a big party at the restaurant and invite everyone we know. It sounds wonderful and I can’t wait to begin planning it. I gather my clothes together, fold them carefully, and then, place them in my luggage, ready for the flight home.
My cellphone chimes and it’s a text message. From Logan? I haven’t heard from him since December; what could he want?
I open it:
“congrats! dean haas told me everything. can’t wait to see you. let’s meet up. call me, logan.”
My thoughts flash back to the day I first met him and what a dashing figure he was, charming, and handsome, wearing that tweed sports jacket with the suede elbow patches, the quintessential professor. I think about our ten perfect years together, and all the happy times we shared, how much I had admired him, and how badly I wanted to be loved by him. I think about what he always used to tell me: “I’m here for you,” and how good that would make me feel.
And then, I think about how he abandoned me, in my time of need, when I was most vulnerable, and how he wanted me for his own selfish delights without commitment. I nervously edge my finger to the keyboard contemplating a response, and then, do the unimaginable.
“Fuck you Logan!” I say to myself, then hit DELETE.
A smile emanates across my face, and with a clear and happy conscience, I go to bed.
CHAPTER 36
My plane touches down at Daytona International at 4:05 PM, right on schedule. That delightful feeling of weightlessness—the one that occurs during those last seconds of flight after the engines have been cut and the plane floats to the safety of mother earth—has now been replaced by the roar of those monstrous engines trying their best to bring this behemoth to a stop before it runs out of runway. I grasp the armrests tightly, preventing myself from being thrown into the seat directly in front. The pilot taxies the plane to the terminal and the seatbelt sign goes off. The passengers jump up in unison and start unlatching the overhead compartments. I’m just too exhausted to bully my way into the crowd, so I lie back in my seat and close my eyes trying to ignore the hustle and bustle.
“Miss, miss,” I hear and promptly open my eyes. The cabin is devoid of passengers, but standing right in front of me is a flight attendant.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have dozed off,” I say.
“Happens all the time,” she says, and strolls right past me. I shimmy out of the seat and retrieve my carry-on from the overhead compartment. I shuffle up the empty plane with my carry-on in tow and can’t help but peek into the open cockpit door directly ahead. The captain and the co-pilot are still there, finishing up their paperwork. As I exit the plane’s door, the wheels on my carry-on drop four inches to the misaligned gangway making a loud clunk against the metal floor.
I stroll up the walkway that leads to the terminal in solitude, and then start wondering; what would it feel like to be a rock star and have a crowd of screaming fans waiting just beyond that last door? But then I remind myself, there will be no one waiting for me. No screaming fans or even friends. I drove myself here and I’ll be driving myself back, alone.
I push open that last door to a brightly lit terminal and look around. As suspected, there is no one here waiting for me. No signs with my name on it.
“Miss, miss,” I hear, as I drag my baggage to the main hallway that leads out of the terminal. I turn just in time to see a man, about thirty, carr
ying a tablet computer and weaving between rows of chairs. He’s heading in my direction and then confronts me.
“Indigo Wells?” he asks, as he climbs over the last row of chairs that separates us, striving to catch up to me before I disappear into the crowd.
“And you are?”
“Jim Bateman, Orlando Sun,” he announces, with a slight British accent.
I stare at him, waiting for an explanation.
“That’s a newspaper,” he adds.
“What can I do for you?”
“Would you comment on your victory in Baltimore?”
“How do you know about that?”
“We saw your picture on the Internet News Service and realized you’re a local girl.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell our readers what it feels like to beat a multinational corporation?”
“I didn’t exactly beat them.”
“You won, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t like I won and they lost. It was more like a win-win-win. A victory for all.”
“Can you explain that better,” he says, and then starts typing feverishly on the tablet.
“Well, if GWI had really lost, I mean, like they were found guilty, they would have appealed for sure, and that would take years, even decades, to resolve. No one wins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, when it’s wrapped up in the courts, the water contamination continues. We all lose.”
“This is good; keep going. I’m taking it down.”
“So the plaintiff wins because the Stewarts get compensated for their loss. The defense wins because they agreed to solve the problem; and that will generate good publicity and increased sales. And the public wins because they get cleaner water as other companies realize it’s good for business to improve their products. It’s a win for everyone.”
“Of course, a win-win-win situation!”
“Isn’t it better to work together to solve the world’s problems, than fight it out until one party drops from exhaustion?”
“But what about you? What do you get out of it?”
“I’m just happy my theories were vindicated, and because of it, we all get a cleaner environment to live in.”